


By What Power I Am Made Bold

by brinnanza



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 09:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5158520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finch is about to propose picking up Thai and bringing it back to the Library when Reese says, “Come over to my place. I’ll make you dinner.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	By What Power I Am Made Bold

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an item from [this list](http://brinnanza.tumblr.com/post/132644902226/send-me-a-word-and-i-will-write-a-drabble): Strikhedonia - The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”. Thanks to Aadarshinah for the beta read. Title comes from A Midsummer Night's Dream (Hermia, act I, scene i).

They wrap up the number, a middle-aged woman who needed to be talked out of killing her father-in-law for the insurance money, in the early evening. Finch is about to propose picking up Thai and bringing it back to the Library when Reese says, “Come over to my place. I’ll make you dinner.”

Finch has work to do, of course -- the usual post-number wrap-up, some debugging for one of his programmer aliases, tweaks to one of his brute force programs -- but the prospect of spending a few hours in Reese’s company with no immediate danger or emergency to tend to sounds much more appealing, so he agrees.

“I thought I was going to have to work a lot harder to convince you,” Reese says, an amused smirk on his face. “I had bullet points.”

Finch grants him a small smile, just a brief quirk of lips. “Perhaps next time, Mr. Reese.”

They stop by the Library to collect Bear, then duck into a tiny corner shop for a bottle of wine. (“You’ve been here before,” Reese observes at his ease among the aisles. Finch smiles enigmatically, revealing nothing.)

In the loft, Bear curls up next to the couch, and Reese goes into the kitchen for a corkscrew and a couple of glasses. He pours the wine, hands a glass to Finch, then sets his on the counter in favor of pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator and cupboards.

“Is there something I can assist with?” Finch asks, but Reese declines, so Finch takes a seat at the table just outside of the kitchen, sipping his wine and watching Reese cook.

It is altogether too rare a pleasure to watch Reese engage in an activity he’s skilled at, that he clearly enjoys, judging by the soft smile on his lips and the sound of what might be humming. More common is the static of security cameras, the endless press of work, hard eyes and a grim expression.

Reese chops and seasons and sautees, his hands quick and sure, and Finch drinks it in. What circumstances would have had to occur, Finch wonders, for this Reese to be the norm, comfortable wielding an eight-inch chef’s knife for nothing more than carrots and bok choy.

In some reality, perhaps, but not this one. He puts it out of his mind in favor of watching Reese for somewhat less innocent reasons.

Reese doesn’t have Grace’s softness or Nathan’s smooth charm, both attractive in their own right, but he moves about the kitchen with the lean grace of an apex predator, unassuming until far too late. He’s shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and Finch watches the shift of muscles in his arms, in his shoulders, along the smooth planes of his back, his eyes tracking even if his face remains carefully impassive.

If he let himself get carried away, becomes too taken with Reese’s constant, acquiescent presence at his side, this would be dangerous. They have a job to do that depends utterly on their ability to focus. If he allowed it, Reese could become entirely too distracting.

He thinks about the rooftop, how Reese thanked him, how Finch had been prepared to sacrifice -- everything, if necessary, and he thinks perhaps it’s already too late.

Reese turns off the range and joins Finch at the table, bearing two plates and his wine glass. He tops off both glasses, then slides into a chair.

“This is delicious, Mr. Reese, thank you,” Finch says warmly a few bites in. Reese ducks his head a little, a pleased smile on his mouth and faint color in his cheeks.

They chat while they eat, what would be idle conversation for anyone else but is much more carefully articulated. Reese advances, feints with questions that sound meaningless but are designed to gather breadcrumbs of information, details of Finch’s life he can add together to form a more complete picture of the mysterious Harold Finch. Finch parries, calculates what is safe to sacrifice, and doles out just enough to result in a stalemate, an irresistible force meeting an immovable object.

When they finish, Reese clears away the plates, and they move to the couch, taking the rest of the wine with them. There is plenty of room for the space required of propriety, but Reese sits close beside him, scant inches of space between them.

Reese finishes his wine, then leans forward to set the empty glass on the coffee table. He looks up at Finch through his lashes, his face flushed a very attractive pink, and Finch swallows, suddenly unsure.

A man like John Reese has to know what he’s doing. Finch finds human interaction tedious, difficult at best, but actual people aren’t that complicated at all. They all have the same basic collection of goals and desires, himself included. People are just patterns, and with the right encryption key, it isn’t all that difficult to decipher their intentions.

Finch had been so sure he’d had Reese’s key, the right pattern to make sense of him, but Reese is so close now, his thigh pressed up along Finch’s. His arm is thrown over the back of the couch and he’s leaning in, his other hand coming to rest on Finch’s knee. This is -- not uncharted territory, certainly, but these are waters he has not personally traversed in quite some time.

“Harold,” says Reese, his voice pitched low and warm like an invitation. He’s even closer now, his face mere inches away.

Flight has always seemed the more attractive option to Finch, the safer option. Retreat means a later opportunity for attack, from higher ground, with more information. A more controlled descent. This seems eerily like free fall, the fast approach of ground and disaster, but also, maybe, something that makes the adrenaline rush of panic worth it.

There’s nothing for it but to jump.


End file.
